


Where the Four Winds Blow

by killabeez



Series: Spin of the Wheel [2]
Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Spanking, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1998, Fitz gave Duncan a glimpse of the future that changed everything. Now it's 2018, his life with Methos is coming apart, his recurring nightmares seem like more than ordinary dreams, and he's starting to think the only solution may be to quit fighting the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Four Winds Blow

**Author's Note:**

> A timestamp for my story [Any Road](http://archiveofourown.org/works/175490), written for the HL_Chronicles challenge.

_Amsterdam  
December, 2018_

The dream was the same; only the details changed. As always, it began in blood and ended in fire and lightning. The laughter that rang in Duncan's ears as he woke followed him into the pale light of dawn.

He sat up, alone—par for the course these days. A cold sweat bathed his skin.

He rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. A glance at the clock told him it was early yet, hours still before he had to be at work. Today was Waterloo, he remembered, and let out a breath. At least it was a lecture he could give in his sleep. 

Duncan closed his eyes and swallowed, then scrubbed his fingers through his short hair, trying to shake the chill. It might have been a nightmare like any other. The faces he'd glimpsed belonged to no one he knew. They slipped away from him with the dream, leaving only the memory of roaring engines and gunfire, of swords, and death. He might have written it off as memory—some lingering ghost of their fight with Kell's gang, years before. But Jacob Kell was long dead, and one consistent detail made these particular images tough to shrug aside: the glimpse of a Watcher tattoo. 

Of course, he tried to tell himself, it made sense that his nightmares would drag up old fears, especially now. He had no reason to believe this was more than ordinary night terrors—no reason save the rare occasions on which his dreams had proved to be something more. But it made sense that old ghosts would haunt him now, with grief still fresh and the air between him and Methos so strained.

With a sigh, he rose. He would sleep no more tonight, and wherever Methos was, he would likely not return until later in the day, if at all. In theory, he still lived here, but he stayed away more nights than not, and Duncan had become accustomed to taking his morning run and his breakfast alone.

At least it was himself he dreamed of, dying in the blood and the rain, and not Methos—not as far as he could tell. Thank God for small mercies. 

* * *

"That bad?" Grieta asked, taking the seat opposite. She held an enormous, steaming cup of tea in one hand, and set another in front of him. The aroma of oranges teased Duncan's nose.

"Thanks." He'd been a million miles away, and hadn't heard her come in. "Sorry, just woolgathering."

"Want to talk about it?"

He winced. "Not really. Haven't been sleeping well, that's all." He sipped at the tea, letting it warm him from the inside out. "S'good."

"Glad you like it." She tsked. Though a mild-tempered cultural studies professor of barely thirty, Grieta could be frighteningly direct, and her frank gaze could intimidate even the fiercest of warriors. "You should take better care of yourself, my friend."

He tried a smile. "Why should I, when I have you?"

She didn't smile back, and Duncan thought maybe he'd been doing a poorer job than he'd thought at pretending everything was okay. Grieta gave him a pointed look, then relented and sipped at her own tea. "I don't like to see you so sad." But when he said nothing, she let it drop. "I can't believe the term is nearly over. Where did the time go?"

They made small talk for a while, in the pale afternoon sun from the office window. When they both rose to leave, Grieta surprised him by squeezing his shoulder. "The new year will be better," she said. "You'll see."

Her words stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn't until he was on the tram home that Duncan admitted why. He'd stopped believing that. Somewhere in the last few months, he'd begun to accept that whatever had gone wrong between him and Methos when Joe died, Duncan couldn't fix. The harder he tried, the more Methos pushed him away—and to be fair, lately, Duncan hadn't been trying all that hard.

If you'd asked him years ago, he would have been the first to admit he and Methos stood little chance of making it work. Given their history, their combined stubbornness and the lives they led, Duncan counted it as nothing short of a miracle that they'd survived this long. Twenty years? They were lucky they'd lasted twenty minutes.

Joe had given it less chance than he had, and there'd been a time, maybe a year and a half after Duncan and Methos had taken up with one another, when he'd almost been proven right. 

Duncan couldn't remember any more what started that fight, only that it was like they'd both been waiting for it. It had escalated fast and ended, predictably, with Methos leaving. Duncan had half-believed he'd never see him again. He'd been convinced at the time that he was a fool for thinking it was ever possible, him and Methos—that he'd been delusional, and living a fantasy. 

Methos had come home after three weeks, and the second Duncan felt his aura, his heart had leapt like a green boy's. He'd barely given Methos a chance to say his name before Duncan had his hands on him and Methos's back against the door. The make up sex had been epic. 

After that, there'd been arguments, of course—some of them as epic as the sex—but no more breakups. Through challenges, through good times and rough, through name changes and job changes and across continents, he and Methos had built a life together. It was the longest Duncan had ever lived with another person, the closest he'd ever come to knowing and being known, and he would do it all over again if he could. Even now, with the writing on the wall, he couldn't find it in him to regret any of it. 

Duncan pulled out his phone and stared at it for a minute before touching the screen. "Hey," he said, when the recording told him to. "It's me." He hesitated for a second, feeling foolish, but pressed on with dogged determination. "Listen, I was thinking maybe we could have dinner tonight. Nine o'clock? Meet me at De Klos if you can." _Please,_ was on his tongue, but he swallowed that back and ended the call, self-conscious enough as it was.

* * *

Joe Dawson hadn't smoked since he was in the service, but a lifetime of working in bars had taken its toll. By the time a Dutch doctor confirmed the diagnosis, he'd had only a few weeks left. 

When the end came, it happened fast. Duncan never had the chance to explain how he knew that Joe was in the hospital—that Duncan had been standing in front of a lecture hall giving a talk on nationalism in Hungary and Romania when miles away, Joe had collapsed in the middle of the street, and Duncan had gone to his knees because he couldn't breathe. It wasn't the first time he'd felt something like that. Under other circumstances, he might have tried to talk to Methos about what it meant, that his sixth sense, or second sight, or whatever you wanted to call it, was getting stronger. In the aftermath, though, with Joe gone... it hadn't seemed important.

Duncan wasn't surprised that Methos had taken it as hard as he had. Bad enough to lose Joe with so little warning, but to see him go like that, after Alexa—Methos had taken it harder than any of them, and that was saying something. None of them had been ready.

For Duncan, who by then knew Methos as well as anyone could, the four month downward spiral that followed wasn't a shock. He might have wished for the strength, the skill to do better, for the two of them to find solace in one another. He might have hoped that they could offer one another comfort. But grief seldom worked that way; there were some things, he knew, you had to work through on your own, and for Methos, this was one of them. 

"Something else for you?" Claire asked him, and Duncan shook his head, avoiding the temptation to glance toward the door. He hadn't realized his wine glass was empty. He glanced at his phone; it was after ten.

"No, thank you, Claire. I'm afraid something's come up. Aaron can't make it. We'll have to do this another time."

"Of course," she murmured, and went to fetch the bill.

It didn't mean anything, Duncan told himself as he stepped out into the clear, cold night and the busy Friday night hum. Methos had never returned his call, and for all Duncan knew, hadn't listened to the message. Methos avoided the phone these days, as thoroughly as he avoided the news and any mention of the past—every subject of conversation seemed to annoy him equally. He'd taken to spending more and more time with his young artist friends, either at the workshops or their apartments, and Duncan knew that in that crowd, Methos might find any number of distractions. That was the point. 

Duncan had never questioned him, never asked whether there were drugs involved. Methos seemed clear-eyed enough when he was home, and the truth was, Duncan didn't want to know. The way he and Methos had been sniping at one another, the hurt he'd felt each time Methos shut him out—he'd been glad enough for a respite, and didn't know if he could take one more source of friction between them. 

Now, he wondered whether he should have made a point of asking. Methos was, God knew, old enough to make his own choices, but maybe Duncan should have tried harder. It seemed impossible that in a few short months, they had drifted so far apart that he honestly had no idea what Methos wanted from him. Surely Methos would have left by now, if he had tired of Duncan—he'd never been a man to remain anywhere he didn't want to be. So what was he waiting for?

Duncan stopped at the corner, an island of stillness in the steady flow of cyclists, trams, and pedestrians. The question arrested his thoughts, making his heart miss a beat. He hadn't thought about it in quite that way before, but it held the ring of truth. He found himself thinking of the way Methos looked at him these days, like he knew something Duncan didn't. 

On another night twenty years ago, Duncan had stood on a street corner in Paris, debating which direction to go. Instinct had guided him then, or maybe something more; he had gone looking for Methos and instead met a man with a sword. If he'd chosen differently, Methos might well have died that night, and they would never have taken a chance on each other. 

Duncan remembered his dreams, then, and before he could second-guess himself, he turned toward the Centre. 

* * *

He knew before he laid eyes on Methos what he was going to find. Music pulsed through the floor and the movement of bodies echoed its rhythm, sensual and dreamlike, a haze of euphoria permeating the place. Most likely, the drug of choice in this crowd was Ecstasy, or some variation thereof. It shouldn't have bothered Duncan so much; everyone in the flat was of age, as far as he could tell, and as drugs went, it was less harmful than some. Using would never rest easy with him, though. He'd seen how quickly it could spin out of control, and lived first-hand with the cost. 

Stomach tight with misgiving, he pushed past the near-naked and undulating bodies, following the siren call of Methos's buzz to the top floor of the apartment. Whatever instinct had driven him here, he'd come too far to turn back. Methos would have sensed him, too.

When he found Methos at last, what Duncan felt most keenly was a great sense of disappointment. He'd thought they were better than this. He'd thought he'd learned, after so many years together, to accept Methos for who he was, and he'd believed that Methos loved him enough in return to spare him the humiliation of knowing that Methos would rather turn to someone else, some twenty-five-year-old with honey-blonde hair and a glazed expression curled up in Methos's lap like she belonged there—like it wasn't the first time. Her mouth was swollen from kissing, her face flushed, and Methos's hand lay under her shirt.

"Mac," he said, and made no effort to shift the blonde. "Something the matter?" His eyes shone, and it was plain from the flush on his face and chest that he was feeling no pain. His smile was slow, easy, but unfocused. Feeling like an idiot as other eyes turned to him, Duncan wanted nothing more than to be gone from here and forget he'd ever come. The urge to reach down and haul Methos to his feet, to drag him out of this place, pressed hot behind his breastbone.

"You didn't come home last night," he got out. 

Methos exchanged a look with the blonde, amused. Someone else chuckled. Methos turned a fond, indulgent expression his way, and Duncan's cheeks burned. "You say that like it's news," Methos said, and Duncan felt the sting like the quick slice of a fine blade. "Did you miss me?"

Duncan didn't know if Methos said anything else. His ears had begun to ring, a rushing sound that made it impossible to hear. Maybe this was what Methos had been waiting for, he thought: for Duncan to see for himself how far they had fallen.

He was nearly to the front door when Methos caught him. "It was a joke," Methos said in his ear, above the throb of the music. "A bad joke. Forgive me." His hand was at Duncan's elbow, long fingers finding the pressure points by habit, forcing Duncan to stop. He pulled Duncan into an alcove near the door, and Duncan got a whiff of his scent, some essential oil and the smell of his sweat, of sex. Duncan shrugged free of Methos's hold and held up a hand when Methos would have leaned into him.

"Methos—don't. Not right now. I get it; I shouldn't have come here. Message received. Come home when you've sobered up, and we'll talk."

Methos laughed. "It's always talking with you. You really think that will help?" Heedless of Duncan's resistance, Methos slipped his hands under Duncan's shirt as he said it, his touch hot against the skin at Duncan's waist. "None of it matters, don't you get that? In the end, this is all that counts, so take it while you can." Despite himself, Duncan shivered; it had been weeks since they'd made love, and Methos radiated heat against him. Methos's eyes were hungry and bright as they fell to Duncan's mouth, and Duncan's body responded without conscious will, the pulse of the music and the promise in Methos's hot gaze getting under his skin despite his anger.

Methos leaned close, then, like he had a secret to tell, and murmured in Duncan's ear, "I swore to kill you once. Did you know that?"

It turned Duncan's blood to ice. Sick to his stomach, he pulled away. "That's enough. Stop now, before we say things we'll both regret."

"On my own blood, and the blood of my brother, I swore it. A lie, of course. Even back then, I loved you best. For all the good it did." 

Duncan searched his face, looking for any sign of the friend he'd trusted with his life, any clue as to what Methos wanted from him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Telling the truth? I thought that's what you wanted." When Duncan didn't immediately answer, Methos chuckled. "Never change, Duncan. The world needs more like you."

Duncan's temper surged at last. He grabbed hold of Methos's arm, hard. "So this is your answer?" He gestured at the flat, the euphoric, drug-enhanced, mindless orgy going on around them. "Nothing matters, so you fuck your life away, and to hell with the rest? You think Joe would have wanted this?"

Fire flashed in Methos's eyes. "Maybe not, but at least he would understand!"

"And you think I don't? You think he meant nothing to me?" Methos raised an eyebrow, his opinion all too clear. The unfairness of it took Duncan's breath. Disbelieving, he stood back. "You don't mean that."

Methos gave a flicker of reaction at that, but despite the music, people were starting to notice them. Duncan glanced around the room; he'd be damned if he was going to do this in front of an audience. If Methos wanted a real fight, he'd have to take it elsewhere. 

He let go of Methos's arm and stepped away. He looked at the man he'd shared his life with for two decades, finding it hard to believe it had come to this. What had he done to make Methos resent him so?

"I'm outta here," he said with finality. "If you've got something to say to me, you know where to find me."

As he left, he thought, maybe he was wrong all these years; maybe he didn't know Methos at all. Maybe he never had. 

* * *

He was still awake, staring into the darkness with a tumbler of scotch in one hand, when the nerve-tingling aura of Methos's Presence touched the edge of his awareness. Half a minute later, the latch clicked, and the door opened.

Methos came inside, but didn't turn the light on. He stood there, waiting; Duncan could see the angle of his head cocked, as though he were listening to see whether Duncan would say something first.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," Methos said at last. He sounded sober, his voice hoarse from the smoke.

"Didn't you?" Duncan took a sip of the whisky, lip curling against its bite. He savored it.

"No," Methos said, and came closer. "I really didn't."

It wasn't an apology, not exactly, but he sounded sincere and some of Duncan's anger bled away. He considered Methos's silhouette, wondering what he should say. The distance between them wasn't Methos's fault alone, and despite the ways Methos had hurt him tonight, Duncan was man enough to admit that. Methos wasn't the only one with issues when it came to expressing grief and loss. 

Still, it stung more than he would have guessed, knowing Methos had been seeking solace elsewhere.

"Do you love her?" he asked roughly, needing to know.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

Duncan nodded. He studied Methos in the near-dark, wondering whether there were any way they could get past this with their friendship intact. The thought of the alternative made his heart hurt, his stomach knot up. He could handle not being Methos's lover, but the thought of never seeing him again—

He choked down the last of the whisky, the bitter burn of it a ward against tears. When he could, he asked, "So, where do we go from here?"

For a long moment, Methos said nothing. The shape of him was both familiar and foreign, the moonlight catching on his broad shoulders and the sharp blade of his jaw, his nose. What had possessed them, Duncan wondered, to think that this would end in any way but pain and blood and possibly the end of the world? Methos had been right all those years ago, when he'd tried to warn Duncan. He'd known even then, and Duncan hadn't listened.

As if in answer, Methos crossed the room in four long strides. He sank to his knees between Duncan's legs and forced Duncan's head back. When Duncan's hands came up helplessly and gripped him close, Methos opened at once for Duncan's tongue, the taste of him bitter, the feel of him an unexpected mercy.

* * *

Whether it was Methos who pushed things too far and too fast, or whether he did, Duncan would never be sure. He was still angry, he knew that much. Maybe Methos was angry, too, and maybe they both had reason, but it was Duncan who had been drinking, Duncan who let things get out of hand, and that he couldn't forgive. 

"You want me to punish you, is that it?" They'd made it to the bedroom; Duncan yanked Methos's jeans down, baring his ass, and pushed him down onto the bed. "Is that what you want?" Methos had goaded him to it, daring him with words ( _come on, show me, you know you want to_ ) and with his body, but the intensity of Duncan's own reaction caught him off guard and made him rougher than he'd intended. The sight of Methos's pale flesh, bared and vulnerable, made his palm itch.

Methos said nothing, only turned his face away, spread his legs and presented his ass. Duncan smacked him twice, sharp blows with the flat of his hand, then pushed him down and spread him wider, holding Methos's hands over his head. Methos made no sound save a soft grunt, but the muscles of his shoulders tensed and he tugged at Duncan's grip, testing.

"Oh, no. You're not getting away that easy." Duncan snaked one arm under and over, locking Methos's wrists in an unbreakable hold, heedless of the way Methos bucked under him. "Is that what you want?"

Methos's breathing turned harsh, and his eyes squeezed shut when he turned his face to the side, his lips parted in what might have been pain or arousal, protest or plea. His hips twisted, though whether he meant to struggle or to drive his swollen cock against the fabric of the bed covers, Duncan couldn't tell. "Do it," Methos choked out. "Just fucking do it. Please."

"I'll do it when and how I damn well please. Got that?" They'd played at such things in the past, but he was dead serious, now, the blood singing in his veins and his cock heavy and tight between his legs.

"Yes." Methos's breath came faster. His hands clenched, but Duncan's grip held. He scraped his free hand up Methos's back, up the back of his neck to twist in his short hair and hold Methos's head down. "Please," Methos said again. And then, soft and desperate, "I'll be good, I promise."

It did things to Duncan he couldn't put into words, having Methos at his mercy after so long without. Methos had reduced Duncan to begging himself on many occasions, but never the reverse, not like this. It touched on hidden desires Duncan would scarce have admitted to, never mind expressed; never in all the years they'd been together had he guessed that Methos would lose control this way, or beg Duncan to take it. 

"Maybe you need to be punished some more, first," Duncan said rough into his ear, barely knowing what he was doing.

"I'll be good," Methos whispered again. But his hips writhed under the weight of Duncan's, his ass begging for more. 

Duncan brought his hand down across Methos's buttocks once more, and the smack rang in the air. His palm stung. But the way Methos jumped with the impact, the way his breath hitched, soft and vulnerable—it was an addiction. Duncan brought his hand down again, harder still. 

"You're mine, do you hear me?" _Smack!_ Under his fingers, the flesh of Methos's ass grew hot, and Duncan's own body sang with the impact. _Smack!_ "You'll do as I say."

"Yes."

"What's that? I can't hear you." _Smack!_

"Yes! Anything. Please."

Duncan's broad palm spread across hot flesh, feeling the imprints his own fingers had made, the stinging welts. _Smack!_ He curled his fingers between Methos's ass cheeks and probed Methos's hole, feeling it clench around the tip of his middle finger. He squeezed. "Tell me again how good you'll be for me."

"I'll be good. I swear."

"You'll be good when I fuck you."

"Yes."

Duncan probed deeper, his skin tingling and his heart beating fast, his balls drawing tight with the need to be inside Methos, to claim every part of him. Methos's hole was hot and dry, fluttering eagerly under his touch. It would hurt if Duncan fucked him like that, but at the moment, Duncan scarcely cared. It was what Methos wanted after all. It was what he was begging for.

He struck Methos again, three times, four—half a dozen, until he lost count. At last Methos made a sound, soft and high. It slipped between his lips, clenched so intimately in Duncan's belly that for a second, he thought he might come right there, spending himself all over Methos's pale, marked skin. He closed his eyes and fought for control. When he was able, he bent down and ran his tongue over the swollen flesh of Methos's ass and thighs, feeling the heat of his blows, then slipping his tongue deeper, tasting Methos's dry, tender hole.

Methos moaned aloud at that, twisting helplessly under Duncan's grip. "Please," he begged. "God, Mac, please, just—"

Duncan rose up and pressed in, though the slick of his spit wasn't nearly enough. Methos's body resisted; he writhed and begged under Duncan's weight, though whether for Duncan to stop or to go on, Duncan couldn't have said. He shoved his cock into that tight heat, too far gone to go slowly.

It hurt, though the pain had to be much worse for Methos. Duncan was fully aroused, his girth far greater than the small hole he penetrated, but if Methos protested, Duncan didn't hear it. He forced himself into Methos's body until he was fully seated and Methos's thighs were spread wide, his ass lifted to meet Duncan's hips. Duncan groaned when he felt himself fully sheathed, his body shuddering already with the need to thrust, to come. He gathered Methos to him, spread his thighs and supported Methos's weight, aching with the strain and the taste of Methos's sweat, the warm salt of his neck sweet under Duncan's tongue.

Mindless, Duncan fucked him across his lap like that in slow, deep thrusts, loving the weight and feel of him too much to let it end. He held out as long as he could; when at last he could bear it no longer, he slicked his palm with spit and closed his hand around Methos's cock, jerking him roughly in time with his thrusts until Methos flung his head back, cried out and spasmed in Duncan's fist, shuddering and coming like a man dying. "Please," he begged, though Duncan was too far gone to know what he begged for, or care. "Oh, God."

It was only afterwards, when Duncan lay awake watching Methos sleep, that he thought what it had really sounded like, more than anything, was Methos begging for everything, for all of it, to stop. His despair rang in Duncan's ears, unmistakable. And though Duncan wouldn't kid himself that Methos hadn't wanted exactly the rough treatment Duncan had given him, that didn't change the fact that Duncan had been out of control. That he'd hurt Methos, and wanted to. That things had gotten to that point between them.

In his sleep, Methos looked about twenty-five, as perfect and untouched as the day Duncan had met him. It didn't help. Nor did it matter that neither of them was really to blame for what had happened tonight. If they kept on the way they had been, they'd slowly tear each other apart.

Duncan knew what he should do. It pained him to even consider it, but if he handled things right—a clean break, now—maybe their friendship could survive it. Maybe that still mattered to Methos, too. 

Maybe if they broke it off clean, whoever was coming for him would leave Methos out of it. 

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Duncan rose. He looked around the apartment, seeing precious little that he would miss. The drawing of Amanda that Tessa had made. The pocket watch Connor had given him in Boston two hundred years ago, that still kept the time. The carved box that held photos of all of them: Richie and Tessa and Joe.

Even thinking about taking those things was more than he could stand, and in the end, he left empty-handed. They were only things, after all. Maybe he could walk away, and maybe it was for the best, but not yet. Not like this.

It was the longest he'd been happy in his life. He was still in love with Methos and probably always would be. But what he felt now was more than the weight of grief, and loss, and time. It was the press of Fate, and the inescapable feeling that they'd pushed their luck as far as any Immortals could. 

Duncan closed the door behind him, then leaned against it. He'd never missed Joe Dawson as much as he did in that moment, and that was saying something. 

* * *

_Meet me at Luka's, 7:30?_

The text came through in the early afternoon, as Duncan was leaving his last class for the term. He read it over a dozen times, his heart pounding in a slow, dull rhythm, before finally texting back:

_I'll be there._

* * *

A cold, gray drizzle had begun to fall as Duncan approached the bar where Methos waited, his buzz bright and clean as a homing beacon. Duncan turned up the collar of his coat and hurried through the gathering dark, the chill rain beading in his hair.

"Mac," Methos said, rising to greet him. He leaned in and kissed Duncan on the cheek like a casual acquaintance, but the squeeze he gave Duncan's upper arm was warm. "Thanks for coming."

It was surreal, that greeting. They might have been strangers, or distant relations. Whatever Duncan had expected, it wasn't that—but maybe it should have been, he realized. He responded in kind. "Something you wanted to tell me?"

"Yeah. Listen, I've been thinking."

In Duncan's defense, he was still off his stride, and the lack of sleep might have had something to do with it. He heard Methos's words, and grasped the gist well enough, but if he misinterpreted the underlying meaning, a certain emotional precariousness and the endless circle of his own thoughts might have played an understandable role. Methos wanted to leave Amsterdam; he understood that much. Duncan recognized the name of a global environmental activist group several of his students were involved in, and the name of an American girl Methos had mentioned once or twice before—Micah. He honestly had no idea whether this was the same girl he'd seen with Methos at the party, though as far as he could follow the thread of Methos's words, he doubted it. That scarcely mattered. 

What mattered was that this was how he and Methos came to the end of things. This was how he would let Methos go—and though he knew already that this was inevitable, though he'd lain awake most of the night coming to terms with it and thought of little else all day, the pain still cut deep.

The friendship must survive, he told himself, shoving that aside. Whatever else, he had to make sure he didn't lose Methos entirely, and if that meant letting him go with grace and dignity, then...

"It's good," he said. "A good plan, I mean. You could really make a difference." He barely knew what he was saying.

Methos smiled. "Always the idealist." He scrubbed one hand over his hair, self-conscious, but hopeful. In spite of everything, it was good to see. "But yeah, I think maybe so. Time for a change." When he looked at Duncan, there was a careful relief veiled in his eyes. "Thank you. I gotta be honest, I thought you'd put up a little more resistance."

"No, of course. It makes sense. I know this has been hard for you." Duncan swallowed, and toyed with his water glass. "Will you stay in New York, or...?"

"Will I—?" Methos shook his head minutely. "Wait a minute. What are you talking about?"

Something in Methos's voice made him look up. "What are _you_ talking about?"

Methos stared at him. "You think I'm leaving you," he said at last. 

Duncan's heart started to beat a little faster, despite his efforts to control it. "Aren't you?" 

"No, that's not— Mac. I wanted you to come with me." 

Everything Methos had said in the last twenty minutes unwound in Duncan's head and reformed in a different language entirely. 

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Methos stared at him, then rubbed his hands over his face. "Have things really gotten that bad?"

Duncan's heart beat harder, a dull, throbbing pressure in his chest. _You idiot,_ he told himself. And then he thought, _yeah, maybe. Maybe they have._ "I don't know," he managed. "You tell me."

There was a protest in Methos's eyes, but something stopped him from voicing it. Duncan gazed at him steadily, letting the question stand.

Methos stayed quiet for a long time. At last, he looked away. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe we do need a break." He swallowed, and looked down at his hands. "Maybe I do."

It took Duncan a moment to be able to answer. When he did, his voice came rough. "It doesn't have to be forever. But... yeah, I think maybe it's a good idea." He was thinking of the night before, and all the ways they'd managed to hurt one another without even trying.

Methos let out a breath. "Wow. Okay."

Duncan gave him a minute to digest it. Knowing Methos hadn't come here to break it off with him soothed his pride—but it didn't change anything, not really. He cleared his throat. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. I'm happy for you." 

It wasn't a lie; Methos seemed better by an order of magnitude today, like he'd found his thirst for life again. Duncan could still salvage this if he tried, he knew that—but maybe this time, for both their sakes, the answer was to let go.

"What about you?" Methos asked at last.

Duncan shrugged. "We'll see. One day at a time, right?"

"Duncan MacLeod, taking life as it comes. What is the world coming to?" A deep well of pain underlaid the glib smile. Twenty years ago, Duncan wouldn't have seen that.

Before he could think better of it, Duncan reached across the table and took Methos's hand. Did he imagine the tremor he felt there?

"We've had a good run," he said.

"Yeah, we have. Better than anyone would have given us credit for."

They met one another's gaze in a moment of understanding. It felt like a seal on everything they'd been to one another.

Duncan knew he should go, leave it at that. He meant to. He was on his feet, but belatedly, the thought of leaving Methos alone and exposed without any kind of warning stopped him.

"Methos, listen. There is something I need to tell you. I've been having dreams lately. Like before."

Methos stared up at him. "What?"

"I can't give you any specifics," Duncan went on in a rush. "Fire and rain, and a Watcher tattoo. That's all I've got. It might be nothing at all. My mind playing tricks on me. But be careful, will you?"

"Always," Methos told him. "You know that. But, Mac—"

Duncan cut him off. If he let himself hesitate, he wasn't sure he would be able to go through with it. "I'll find a hotel," he said. "You can keep the flat until you go."

Methos's expression closed up tight at that. "Fine."

"Methos—"

"No, you're right. Let's not get maudlin. Cut clean, remember?"

"Fair enough." Go now, he thought, before you can't. Instead, he put a hand on Methos's shoulder. He could feel the tension there, though Methos was trying hard not to show it. "Friends?"

After a long moment, Methos's hand closed over his. He didn't look at Duncan. "Do you really need me to say it?"

Duncan squeezed. It was as good as a promise, and more than Duncan could have hoped for.

He left Methos there and only let himself look back once. Methos reached for his drink, and Duncan imagined he held his head a little higher, his shoulders a little straighter. 

For a second, Duncan felt a pang of doubt. But he'd trusted his instincts this far, and left himself little choice but to let go and walk away. _Sometimes you gotta go with your gut,_ Joe would say. Maybe he'd finally learned that lesson.

* * *

_London  
February, 2019_

A car splashed through an icy puddle, narrowly missing Duncan's shoes as he passed through the outer gates of the British Museum. His breath misted in the air. After the stuffy closeness of Lichenfeld's office, he welcomed the cold. He would walk back to his hotel, he decided, and see about finding something to eat on the way.

It was then that the sense of another Immortal rang in his bones, and Duncan cursed under his breath. Immortals were thick on the ground in London, and he carried his sword under his coat, but he had no desire to fight. He scanned the street, hoping it was coincidence—but then his eyes found the source of the buzz. His heart gave a painful stutter.

 _Methos._ Standing at the corner near the square, watching him, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. 

Two months had passed since the last time Duncan had seen him, but it might as well have been years. Duncan drank in the sight of him, a light, fluttering sensation in his belly that refused to settle as he strode toward the corner where Methos waited.

When Duncan reached him, Methos turned without a word and fell into step with him. They crossed to the square, and Duncan followed him to an empty bench, apprehension finally cutting through the initial surge of relief.

"What's happened?" he asked, half-dreading the answer. Connor? Amanda? Couldn't be. He'd spoken to Connor less than a week ago. But why else would Methos come here?

Methos cocked his head, glancing around as if to make sure they weren't overheard. The cold had turned the tips of his ears pink, Duncan saw. His hair was longer, too. 

Methos huffed out a breath. He barely glanced at Duncan, occupied with watching the passersby. "Why didn't you tell me about your nightmares?"

"Excuse me?"

Methos did look at him, then, his irritation showing through. "Hell of a parting shot, telling me you'd been dreaming about hunters with Watcher tattoos. 'Oh by the way,' he says. 'Be careful,' he says."

Duncan still hadn't regained his equlibrium, but he rallied as best he could. "We weren't exactly living in each other's pockets, if you recall."

"Yeah. I remember."

Even Methos's ire made him happy. _Careful,_ Duncan warned himself. _This isn't a social call._ "Methos, tell me. Why've you come?"

Methos's keen gaze finally settled on his. "These nightmares. When did they start?" 

"I don't know... not long after Joe's funeral, I guess?"

Methos drew a deep breath and rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. "Three days ago, I got a call from Amy. She was practically speaking in code, and when I went to her place, she was gone. I think she was trying to warn me."

Duncan's senses shifted to high alert. He glanced around the square as Methos had done earlier, suddenly aware of how exposed they were. "You think something happened to her?"

"Maybe. Or maybe she got out first. There were no signs of a struggle."

Duncan digested that. "We have to find her."

"Obviously. But where to look?"

"Phone records, cameras... We could use a technical consultant. I'll get in touch with Amanda."

Methos nodded. "Already did. She's on board."

Duncan gave him a close look. Wherever Methos had been these last few months, whatever he'd been doing, it seemed to have been good for him. He was focused, sharp—like his old self. It made Duncan's heart beat faster as little else could have.

"She's on board," he repeated. He searched Methos's face. "We in this together, then?"

Methos met his gaze. "What do you think?"

Despite every voice of reason that tried to tell Duncan this was a bad idea, he couldn't help the wave of relief he felt. Methos was here. With him. In the face of that, everything else seemed inconsequential.

"I've missed you," he said, before he could think better of it.

Methos arched an eyebrow. "Have you?"

"More than you can imagine." 

"Oh, I don't know, I have a very good imagination."

The acid was sharp in Methos's tone, but Duncan knew him well enough to see the truth through the smokescreens. The weight of Methos's shoulder against his was the best thing he'd felt in his memory.

"Tell me something," Methos said then. 

"What."

"How much of what happened in Amsterdam was about you trying to protect me? Because I thought we agreed, I don't appreciate the martyr act."

Duncan's face warmed. "Sounds familiar, now that you mention it."

"Just so we're clear."

"And what about you?"

"What d'you mean?" Methos tried to look innocent.

Duncan huffed a breath in exasperation. "You know what I mean. I haven't seen you like that since Bordeaux. Can't lose what you don't have—is that it?"

Answering color rose in Methos's face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, really."

"Not a clue."

"Right."

They held one another's gaze. Duncan knew he wasn't the only one remembering a bright, cold day in Paris. How far they'd come, he thought, and how far they had yet to go. 

"We're both idiots, aren't we?" he said at last.

"Joe would have said so."

"He'd've been right." Duncan hesitated. Then, he dared, "Think we could give it another shot?"

After a long moment, Methos said, "That depends." 

Methos's eyes shone a deep, warm gold in the sunlight. His cheeks were pink, his lips reddened by the cold, and Duncan wanted nothing more than to slip his hands into his coat and warm him up. But it was the spark of certainty hidden in Methos's expression that gave Duncan the courage to lean in, to close the space between them. Pulse racing, he kissed Methos there in full view of God and man, the kiss long and sweet, both promise and apology. Methos tasted like home, and Duncan's heart sang with relief.

"I'm so stupid," he said when they broke apart. He leaned his head against Methos's and closed his eyes, his throat aching. He rested his palm against the warm curve of Methos's neck. "Really, I mean it. I'm sorry."

Methos's voice rumbled rough in his ear. "Apology accepted, on account of how you're not the only one."

Duncan kissed him again. "We should get out of here."

"And by here, I hope you mean the continent."

"I've heard worse ideas." But he gathered Methos's gloved hand in his and held on. He knew Methos was right and they should go, but he couldn't help wondering how long would it be before they were alone someplace private. Hours, most likely, and every moment of it an excruciating tease. His body ached in anticipation. 

"Uh oh," Methos said, eyeing him with suspicion. "You're not going to propose, are you? Because I gotta tell you, your timing leaves something to be desired."

Duncan fought a grin. "I can wait."

"Oh, God, here we go. Sorry, changed my mind, gotta run." But the flush in Methos's cheeks belied his words, and he didn't pull his hand away.

Duncan kissed him once more, taking his time about it. "Totally convincing. But you're the one who brought it up."

"Noticed that, did you?"

"Uh huh."

They leaned their heads together for a minute, and whether it was his own heartbeat he could hear or Methos's, Duncan wasn't sure.

"We should go," Methos said at last.

"Yeah, we should."

Duncan rose with effort, and Methos stood with him. "After you," Duncan said, gesturing for Methos to lead the way. When Methos gave him a curious look, he shrugged. "Your show, kemosabe."

Methos's eyes turned up at the corners, a real smile that Duncan felt to his core. "A guy could get used to that."

With fervent, heartfelt sincerity, Duncan said, "Let's hope."

 

_~ end ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: if you're looking for a spoiler for the character death in this story, it's Joe Dawson (off screen).
> 
> This turned out to be an odd little story. It's not really what I set out to write, or what it could have been, but I can honestly say it was the best I could do in the time I had! Thank you so much to pat_t and Rhiannon Shaw for encouraging me.


End file.
